


Port in a Storm

by Biscay



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscay/pseuds/Biscay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patsy gets by with a little help from her friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere around s4.

Patsy's heart jumps when she glimpses Delia's face through the banisters.

"Good afternoon Pats," Delia smiles, looking up, "Sister Evangelina saw me waiting outside and made me come in."

"Good thing too," Patsy says as she makes her way downstairs. She thinks about all the girls who have walked down these very stairs, all made up and perfectly coiffed for their date. "I don't want you standing in the cold. I'm ready to go if you-"

"Why _hello_ Delia, how lovely to see you!" Trixie beams, strolling in from the kitchen arm-in-arm with Barbara, "I feel like we haven't seen you in an age, especially since you're spending so much time with this one!"

Patsy winces through Trixie's well-meaning poke in the ribs.

"Good to see you too, Trixie; Barbara," Delia grins.

"We started to think that perhaps she'd got a secret man and was using you as an excuse!"

Delia isn't able to catch her expression quite quickly enough, and Trixie pounces like a lioness.

" _Is_ there a man, Delia? We can't trust Patsy for juicy details at all!"

"Leave her alone," Barbara says, blushing on Delia's behalf, "she doesn't deserve this."

"Very well. Delia, consider yourself spared for the moment."

"Now you've received a stay of execution, shall we depart?" Patsy says airily.

"I will find your secret, Nurse Mount!"

"Well, it's not every day you get to spend an afternoon out on the town with a woman of mystery," Delia winks at Patsy and Barbara laughs.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Trixie calls after them.

* * *

"And to think, the man on the wireless said it would be clement today!" Patsy says as they emerge from the District Line, the rain coming down in sheets. "The weather was fine when we left! Do you think this rather ruins our plans?"

Delia smiles that smile that Patsy can't resist, and shakes her head. "Absolutely not."

They buy an umbrella from a street vendor, but it's too late and they are both already soaked. Delia puts the umbrella up anyway and Patsy huddles close. Their height difference makes it slightly awkward, but neither minds.

"Do you have an idea of where we should go?" Patsy asks as they stroll along, her arm folded through Delia's.

"Of course," Delia holds up her bag, "we're having our picnic in the park!"

"But it's-"

"Do you have the phrase 'come hell or high water' in England, Pats? How did you all win the war with that attitude?"

Patsy's shoes are sodden and squelch with every step, but with this perfect excuse to be so close to Delia, and the weather meaning there are hardly any people around, it's impossible to be disappointed. Delia leads the way with a spring in her step, and they walk along the tree-lined pathways of Richmond Park, down to the pond where ducks are enjoying the rain.

"Here we are," Delia's words are light, but her lips nearly brush Patsy's ear as she says them, and Patsy shivers a little.

"The bandstand! Of course. You're quite the genius."

Delia beams as she shakes the umbrella and sets down the picnic blanket. "Not as soft as the grass would have been, but it's dry and I'm with you, so it's perfect in my eyes."

Patsy doesn't have a response to that, so she helps Delia unpack the food and together they make their way through cheese sandwiches, half a pork pie, and a bottle of root beer. They sit close together; the blanket isn't large, after all, and sometimes Delia's hand brushes Patsy's as she reaches for a serviette. The ducks and Canada geese don't notice.

"I brought some pound cake-" Patsy starts, but a sudden flash of light interrupts her and startles them both.

"One elephant, two elephant, three elephant -" Delia counts, and they both wait for a moment. Sure enough, a deep rumble of thunder shakes the small wet patch of London. The girls shift a little closer together.

"I'm glad it's a long way off." Delia says, cutting a slice of cake, "I don't care much for thunderstorms."

"Singapore was full of thunderstorms," Patsy says, "some weeks there would be a storm every day."

Delia leans closer. "Really?"

"Yes, I was told the science behind it once but I'm afraid I've rather forgotten. Something to do with humidity levels. They were beautiful, though; giant arcs of purple that split the sky. My mother loved them."

Delia takes Patsy's hand. Not an accidental brush, but a warm grasp.

"Some evenings we would watch them out of the window."

Another flash lights up the sky. Delia counts in her head this time and gently squeezes Patsy's hand for each second. Eight. The thunder roars in the distance.

"When we were in the camp, I always used to wish and wish they would bring down the Japanese warplanes."

"You're safe now." Delia says quietly, firmly.

Patsy squeezes her hand back. "I know."

* * *

"Gracious, you're soaked through!" Trixie exclaims as she catches Patsy trudging into Nonnatus House and dripping puddles with every step. Patsy had insisted Delia take the umbrella home, and they'd stood arguing about it (getting steadily more soaked) for five minutes. "Come on, before Sister Evangelina spots you and forces you to mop everything up!"

Patsy hurries upstairs, where she sees that Trixie and Barbara have abandoned their plans to attend a concert in favour of playing rummy on Trixie's bed. Barbara waves.

"Don't just stand there dripping on the floor, get in the bath before you catch your death!" Trixie chastises, so Patsy does as she's told. When she returns from the bath, clad in striped pyjamas and damp hair twisted inside a towel, there's a mug of Horlicks waiting on her bedside table. Thunder is still rumbling outside.

"I can deal you a hand if you'd like to join us?" Barbara offers as she shuffles the pack with surprising dexterity for a vicar's daughter.

"Go on then, but you're not getting me to play for money."

"Sssh, Sister Julienne will hear you!" Barbara looks mortified at the idea.

"I don't know about you two _loose women_ , but I'm on first shift in the morning and categorically refuse to stay up all night _gambling_!" Trixie raises her voice on the last word, sending Barbara and Patsy into a fit of giggles.

"Thanks awfully for the Horlicks, girls," says Patsy, once recovered.

"You're very welcome. Horlicks and pyjamas before 7pm, what thrilling lives we lead." Trixie says, adding a dram of something to her drink.

"Was the concert rather a bust in the end?"

"After all the fuss, we ended up not going; not with rain like that!" Trixie says, "I'm surprised you stayed out as long as you did. Was it a lovely time?"

"Rather," Patsy says, forcing down a lovesick smile.

Barbara deals them each a hand of cards and, careful to not disturb the nuns, they while away the evening together. Patsy wishes Delia were here (truth be told, it's rare that she doesn't feel the ache of her absence), but an evening with her friends is not an evening wasted.

She's never had friends quite like Trixie and Barbara before. Nonnatus House – not that she would ever tell Sister Evangelina – was never meant to be more than a stopping point. But she and the other midwives have developed a friendship like she's never known; the kind forged in battle, the kind on which men usually think they have a monopoly. In London she's gained better friends than she (brisk, icy-cold, secretive Patsy) ever dreamed.

And she never dreamed she'd one day have someone who would hold her hand through a thunderstorm.


	2. Chapter 2

"Chrysanthemums," Patsy observes, clutching her mug of tea to show that her intention is not to linger.

Sister Julienne looks up and uses her sleeve to wipe sweat from her brow, "Indeed. I'm pinching them out for summer. I'm hoping it will give us some more blooms."

"I'm sure they'll look beautiful,"she says honestly, "the dahlias were marvellous."

"Why, thank you," Sister Julienne says, "between the allotment and the space set aside for Fred's latest venture, it's been difficult keeping a part of the garden just for flora. But it is one of my pleasures-"

"And one richly deserved," Patsy says, taking a sip of tea.

"Do you have much of a green thumb, Nurse Mount?"

"I'm afraid not. I'd always hoped to take up gardening someday, but I think I shall have to stick to nature books and flower pressing for now."

"Far be it from me to take your precious free time to do my chores," Sister Julienne says nonchalantly, returning to the buds, "but you are welcome to tend to the flowers in the garden whenever you please."

"Are you sure-?"

"I grow flowers for my own comfort, but if you would gain peace from them also, it would be a joy doubled."

* * *

Between her commitments with the Cubs and duties as midwife and district nurse, Patsy never does get around to helping Sister Julienne with the garden.

But months later, on the day of the funeral of April Bissette; the tiny thing she'd delivered, who went cold so quickly on the draining board, who'd sent her running right into Delia's arms – Patsy finds a small bunch of daffodils on her nightstand.

She sobs quietly, moved by Sister Julienne's kindness and remembering the tiny foot poking out the the blanket. She sniffs the flowers and caresses their petals.

She doesn't want to explain everything to Trixie, who knows nothing of Patsy's breakdown, but neither does she want to deal with the insinuations which will no doubt come with her receiving an anonymous bouquet.

Patsy takes a single flower, yellow and beautiful, fragile and fleeting, and presses it between the worn pages of the _Grey's Anatomy_ she keeps among her novels and textbooks. Once dried, it will join similar flowers in her box of memories.

* * *

"Patsy, they're gorgeous!"

Wrapped in brown paper, the daffodils survive the journey to the nurse's home remarkably well. Delia, behind her closed door, is surprised and overjoyed in equal measure.

"I believe they were intended as both a thanks and a wish of goodwill. They have fulfilled their purpose, so I thought I should give them a new one; brightening up your windowsill."

"That's lovely, thank you so much,"

"Besides," Patsy says, looking at the ground, "for that night in particular, you deserve all the thanks I can give."

"The Jamaican lady's baby? Oh, come here," Delia says, drawing Patsy into a hug. It is tight and lingering and it means the world, "I'm so glad you came to me that night. The thought of you, all alone..."

"It's all right. I'm all right." the quiver in Patsy's voice isn't entirely reassuring, but Delia changes the subject anyway.

"You know, I'm not even sure if I've got a vase to put them in. I don't get many gorgeous girls giving me flowers."

"The fact they're passed on from a nun rather spoils the romance-"

"Nonsense, they're perfect." Delia says, settling on a tall glass tumbler to serve as a vase. "What do they mean? You know, in Victorian flower language?"

Patsy shifts. "I don't-"

"Don't give me that, Miss I'll-Run-Away-And-Become-A-Florist," Delia carefully puts the flowers on her windowsill and turns back to Patsy, taking her hand. "Tell me."

"It's a spring flower, symbolic of new beginnings."

"And Wales."

Patsy smiles. "And Wales."

"I like that. New beginnings."

Patsy gently kisses Delia's cheek. "Me too."


	3. Chapter 3

"Come on Mrs Jones! Just one more great big push for me!"

Patsy's hand is almost numb from the iron grip of her patient, but the long, protracted birth is nearly at an end. With the other hand easing the baby along, she can do nothing about the damp hair stuck to her face.

"That's the way!"

Mrs Jones' strained cries finally cease, and after a few beats of ringing silence, the air is again filled with cries, this time from Poplar's newest inhabitant.

Pasty clips and cuts the cord, and wraps the baby girl up in a soft blanket to pass to her mother. "Mrs Jones, you have a daughter."

Mrs Jones, who is no older than Patsy herself, smiles that brilliant smile, joy radiating through the pain and exhaustion. And Mrs Jones has plenty of reason to be exhausted – Patsy has been attending her labour for four hours. The air is thick and humid; the burner has been on full blast to keep a supply of hot water.

Mr Jones comes in from pacing behind the door as soon as the afterbirth is delivered. He takes his wife's hand, and they look down at their new baby, adoration on their faces. Patsy suddenly feels like an intruder, so she sorts out her equipment, washes her hands, and bids the new parents farewell.

Finally stepping out of the building, Patsy retrieves her bicycle and breathes the fresh air of the morning. There is blood on her uniform and she desperately needs a shower. She checks her watch. 7am. Rather than waking Trixie, whom Patsy knows was up until 2am with Sister Julienne dealing with a particularly difficult breech birth, she heads towards the nurse's home. She knows someone who will be up already, despite it being her day off. She will be on her third cup of tea, and - if everyone else is attending their shifts, which Patsy thinks they might be - singing away like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.

* * *

"You look like death warmed up!" Delia exclaims, "shouldn't you be working?"

"Well, if this is the sort of reception I get-"

"No, of course I'm pleased to see you, silly. It's just so unexpected!"

"Mrs Jones went in to labour early, so I had to attend."

"That's a good, strong Welsh name. I trust mother and baby were all right?"

"She's got a lovely baby girl, both in fine spirits."

"And the name? Angharad? Bronwen?"

"I think I'd rather enjoy listening to you go through the entire alphabet, but the parents are yet to decide. And I do hate to spoil your fun, but they're not actually Welsh."

"So this leaves you free today, then?"

"Until 11, at least. And I can't go out looking like this; I was simply exhausted and wanted to see you."

"You are a wonderful surprise, Patience Mount, and I'm sorry if I suggested otherwise. Would you like some coffee? You can shower if you'd like."

"Some coffee would be superlative. I'll shower at Nonnatus; I don't much fancy putting these clothes back on."

Patsy follows as Delia leads her into the communal kitchen and puts the kettle on. She sits at the table and watches Delia prepare a coffee for Patsy and a tea for herself, knowing that any attempt to help will be rebuffed.

For a moment, Patsy allows herself to enjoy the domesticity of their scene. Delia welcoming her home, fussing in her spotless kitchen, and nobody to hide from.

Delia puts on some toast because she knows Patsy is always famished after a night shift.

"For my hard worker," she says, as if reading Patsy's thoughts. She puts the mugs and plate down in front of Patsy, then slides into the seat beside her. She hands Patsy the butter and the raspberry jam she has borrowed from Nurse Wilkins, because she knows it is Patsy's favourite.

Delia watches Patsy prepare her toast, then steals a bite out of a slice. Patsy feigns outrage.

"Why, you tealeaf!"

Delia laughs, eyes sparkling.

Patsy reaches over to brush a stray crumb from Delia's lips. Delia leans in to her touch. Neither moves for a few seconds.

The hubbub of Poplar buzzing outside is a reminder that these moments are private and fleeting, but Patsy treasures each one. She moves her hand to her lap.

Delia understands. "What a lovely morning this turned out to be."

"It's perfect." Patsy agrees, sipping her coffee.

* * *

"I suppose I should be heading back," Patsy says, wishing she could stay.

"What, already?"

"I'm afraid so, old thing."

Delia reaches into Patsy's bag and retrieves a book; she knows there will be one there, Patsy never leaves without one. Grinning, she slips something between the dog-eared pages. Unable to resist, Patsy reaches over and finds a small bookmark of a religious icon. Years at Our Lady and St Mark means she can immediately recognise St John, with his thin halo and long scroll.

"Delia, I'm not sure I-"

"St John, like St John Ambulance. Something to keep by your bedside to remind you of me."

Patsy laughs, loud and uninhibited, "very innocuous. Thank you, darling."

"They were giving them out at cadets training last week and I wanted you to have one."

"On long nights, I shall look at St John here and think of your rendition of _Ar Hyd y Nos_ and I'm sure I will be asleep in no time. I'm only sorry the nuns don't provide promotional material with St Raymond Nonnatus so I can't return the favour."

"It's all right," Delia says, returning the book and stepping much closer to Patsy to do so than strictly necessary, "I'll think of you anyway."

* * *

That evening, Patsy looks up from her book to see Trixie looking dishevelled in the doorway, mascara smudged into black circles around her eyes. "Oh sweetheart, what's wrong?"

Trixie breaks down in Patsy's arms and manages to tell, through sobs and hiccoughs, how little David Shipwright, the premature baby delivered by Trixie to the ironmonger and his wife, had died suddenly aged just three days. Patsy's heart breaks as she thinks about the sheer joy the Joneses showed her that morning, and the horror if it were all suddenly snatched away.

Holding her friend close, she rubs Trixie's back and strokes blonde hair. Patsy thinks of when her mother used to soothe her after bad dreams about monsters. She considers how lucky she is to have Delia now to comfort her and chase away her demons. At Trixie's request, she pours several strong drinks, which are downed between washing the ruined makeup from her face and changing into her nightie. Sick with grief and alcohol, Trixie quickly dozes off, ungracefully face-down on her bed.

The room now too quiet, Patsy gently strokes her bookmark and hums a traditional Welsh folk song under her breath. Trixie's ragged breathing eventually settles, and Patsy thinks of dark hair and blue eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

After fifteen hours of gruelling labour, the last of Mrs O'Shea's triplets is finally born. She was supposed to be admitted to the maternity ward, but her waters breaking early meant that Patsy, Sister Winifred and Sister Evangelina spent most of the night and all of the morning helping the young Irish mother through her ordeal. Michael, Keith and Seamus are all so small they have to be taken to The London to be incubated, but all were good, healthy screamers.

Sister Evangelina sends the junior midwives home while she finishes the last of the duties. When Sister Winifred and Patsy arrive back, they are greeted by a huge round of applause for the successful delivery; news travels extremely fast in Poplar.

While all Patsy really wants to do is head for bed, teatime turns into an impromptu celebration. Patsy makes her way to the kitchen, preparing to cut freshly-acquired scotch eggs into slices to serve at the table. Past the refrigerator, she can see that Sister Monica Joan has decided that the situation is definitely worthy of coconut sponge. She turns back to the table, arms laden with platters of cheese and onion sandwiches and scotch egg slices, and comes face-to-face with Sister Julienne.

"There is a visitor for you."

Behind Sister Julienne, Delia waves, a little sheepish at intruding on the celebration.

"I'm so sorry Delia, I utterly forgot about our plans! It's been a rather busy morning and-"

"It's really all right," Delia says honestly, "in fact, Sister Julienne was just filling me in on how you were rising to meet difficult challenges."

Patsy wants to make more excuses, ashamed at her forgetfulness, but Sister Julienne steps in. "Miss Busby, please do join us for tea."

"I don't want to be an imposition." Delia's manners are impeccable.

"Nonsense; any friend of Nurse Mount is a friend of Nonnatus House."

* * *

Over the years, Patsy has become rather good at getting along with people. Through her own mix of hard work, charm, and a willingness to break the rules, she can win most people over. It wasn't always the case – Patsy imagines the girls at Our Lady and St Mark remember her as the perfect midpoint between an insufferable snob and a dreadful know it all – but war changes people, as Patsy knows better than anyone.

How to keep your head down and avoid the guards during _tenko_. How to convince the Dutch women to trade their egg for some rice. How assisting at the medical quarter means someone will help when Elizabeth's wounds won't heal.

Of course, it's one thing for people to like you, quite another to like other people. Fortunately, despite mostly taking after her father (red hair, fondness for a good whiskey, an eye for pretty brunettes), Patsy inherited two things from her mother: her name and a nurse's greatest asset. Both things are patience.

So she doesn't resent Trixie who, sitting next to her at the table, complains about the calories in Mrs B's treacle tart. She knows it doesn't occur to Trixie that it might be insensitive to someone who has seen as many people die of malnutrition as they have seen babies born.

"I can't believe all this," Delia exclaims from across the table, "it seems like only last week we were getting our ration books stamped!"

But Delia's joy means she can get along with everyone without even trying. Doctors; patients; _Nurse Crane_. As Delia sits at the table, chatting to everyone as if she's always been there, Patsy basks in the reflected glow of Delia's brilliance. She thinks about this dazzling, beautiful spark of a girl, and considers that she's _like_ Patsy. If this is God's way of making up for the horror of Patsy's early life, she doesn't know what to think.

"So I said, no, it's donkey's _years_!" Delia says, and the whole table bursts out laughing.

Patsy has to focus on the sausage rolls to avoid Sister Julienne's omniscient gaze.

* * *

Later, the table has been cleared and the dishes washed and put away (Delia insisted on helping; Sister Evangelina approved).

"I hope you don't mind, but I'm rather too tired to attend our outing in the end," Patsy says, after the other midwives have dispersed, "I do hope you're not too disappointed."

"Not at all; tea with your Nonnatus family was better than any old outing."

Nonnatus family. Patsy likes that. "But if you don't have anything to hurry back for, you could join me for a drink upstairs?"

"I'd love to."

* * *

"I'm so pleased I've finally met them all." Delia sighs, leaning against Patsy. They are alone in Patsy and Trixie's shared room, huddled on Patsy's bed and quietly enjoying the crackling music of Chris Barber's Jazz Band on the turntable. "You've met everyone I live with,"

"That's because I lived with them too, darling."

Delia nudges Patsy's foot with her own in response. "I don't know why everyone's so afraid of Nurse Crane, she's a sweetheart."

"We are both thinking of the same Nurse Crane? Tall, curly hair, Leeds accent?"

"The very one. She reminds me of my old music teacher. No nonsense at all, but we all learned a lot from her." Delia giggles, "I can imagine her butting heads with Sister Evangelia, though."

Patsy is as pleased as Delia that the two families she has, Nonnatus and Delia, now know each other. She imagines it's how people feel when they meet their fiancé's parents; hoping everyone gets along, that everyone sees the good in each other.

Patsy's not sure that Delia's capable of not seeing the good in someone. She's a salve to Patsy's wounded soul, who saw too much human cruelty too young.

"Today is the anniversary of my sister dying." Patsy says quietly.

Delia takes her hand. "Oh, Pats."

"I had intended to ask you to come along to a church service with me. I don't usually go except for Christmas, Easter, and now St Raymond Nonnatus' feast day. But I try to attend Mass on the 2nd and 23rd of May each year."

"There will be an evening Mass, Patsy, we can easily make it."

Patsy thinks for a moment. "I think what I've done today; delivering those triplets, having tea with you and everyone, and now this - it's enough. Compared to the past years... I'm happy with my life in a way I never thought I could be."

"I think Elizabeth would want that for you. Your mother, as well."

"I think so, too."

They sit in silence for a moment, as Patsy says a silent prayer for her dear sister. Having Delia hold her while she does is better than gazing up at the huge crucifix, feeling ever so small, and wondering what judgment might lie behind Jesus' sad eyes.

Delia brushes away a few stray tears, and holds and holds Patsy. Neither is sure for how long, but eventually their peace is interrupted by the noise of Trixie and Barbara coming upstairs.

The clompy NHS-issued midwife shoes give them plenty of time to compose themselves, and by the time Trixie opens the door, Delia is over the other side of the room, changing records. Patsy sits at the foot of her bed, nursing a babycham.

"Hello girls - I'm glad you're still here, Delia. Sergeant Noakes is looking after Freddie this evening, so Chummy has invited us out to see _Room at the Top_ at the pictures! Do say you'll come!"

"It's meant to be very good," Barbara adds, "and it's got Laurence Harvey in."

"What do you think, Delia?" Patsy asks.

"Oh, _do_ say yes, Delia! You haven't met Chummy yet!"

Patsy's heart is warmed by Trixie wanting Delia to be included and meet everyone as much as she herself does. Trixie's not perfect – none of them are - but Delia was right when she called them all family.

"I'd love to," says Delia.


	5. Chapter 5

"The red planet is rising," says Sister Monica Joan. Patsy, having just put down the phone, whirls around in surprise.

"Sister Monica Joan-"

"Surely you were born under Mars in retrograde?" Sister Monica Joan steps forward and gently strokes a lock of Patsy's hair, "little else could account for a mane of such a hue. Your Saturn return is imminent, my dear, and you must embrace it!"

"I'm afraid I know very little about the alignments of the planets under which I was born," Patsy says, "however, I do know that Sister Julienne needs a replacement delivery pack at Burcham Street, so I need to pass this message on to Sister Winifred."

Sister Monica Joan relents and lets Patsy pass. After Sister Winifred has departed, Patsy moves back to the table, in careful sight of the telephone. The moment she sits down, it rings again.

"Nonnatus House, Midwife speaking."

"Hello, you."

Patsy grins, despite herself. "Hello, Delia."

"Not good news, I'm afraid; Nurse Jenkins has gone down with influenza and we're all working extra shifts, so I won't be able to make it this afternoon. I'm so sorry."

"Not at all, it can't be helped."

"We'll go out next week, though?"

"Of course we will. Make sure you don't get sick, too."

Patsy can hear Delia's smile over the phone. "I will."

"Goodbye then."

"Goodbye, Pats."

Making her way back to the table, Patsy feels disappointed, of course, but also relieved. She and Delia have been spending a lot of time together recently, after all, and wasn't the point of moving to midwifery to get away from potential rumours?

She hates herself for feeling this way.

Endearments that used to fall freely from her lips are now carefully filtered out of her vocabulary. Trixie casually referred to Delia as 'that darling girl' the other day, evoking an uncharacteristic stab of jealousy. Not that she fears there's anything between Trixie and Delia (nothing further from the truth), but she envies the ease with which the affection is given. To be able to address her precious, beautiful, darling Delia with such words somewhere outside of private whispers!

"Penny for them?" Barbara asks, strolling into the kitchen and finding Patsy deep in thought.

"I was thinking about," Patsy starts, caught off guard, thinking quickly about how to phrase her answer. Barbara is sheltered but not stupid. "how, all things considered, being a nurse isn't that different to becoming a nun. We still have the same limitations."

"I'd never really thought about it like that," Barbara says, joining her at the table. "When I was growing up, I used think I was terribly unlucky, being a clergyman's daughter. I always had to be well behaved, well dressed – mostly because of my mother, who took her role in the parish extremely seriously. So being here is rather liberating; I can dress how I like, I could drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes," she smirks at Patsy, "even though I choose not to. I could even have a boyfriend if I wanted. The nuns definitely can't do that."

"I suppose you're right," Patsy says, "although we still have obligations and expectations that continue even when we're not on duty. If you did have a boyfriend, you couldn't have a baby with him without being married first."

Barbara blushes at the very idea, and Patsy is reminded of just how fond of Barbara she is.

(Barbara is wearing her Alice band today, just like Elizabeth used to.)

"I suppose. I can't think of much that's prohibited that I'd want to do, though. Although, now you mention it, being able to eat outdoors in uniform would be rather nice."

"Of all the things, that's the one you'd change?"

"Don't tell anyone," Barbara says, lowering her voice, "but when I was in training, I was coming back from a home visit and it was the most dreadfully hot day. I was positively parched, and then down the street came an ice cream van. I couldn't resist; I bought a mivvi and was enjoying it on my walk back, when around the corner I saw Ward Sister Wilkins, the terror of Liverpool Royal Infirmary! I had about three seconds before she'd see me, and I panicked and just stashed it in my bag."

"Your ice cream?" Patsy laughs.

"Yes! It melted _everywhere_ ; I spent the whole of my afternoon off cleaning the bag and everything in it!" Barbara has tears in her eyes as she recounts the story, "she stopped me in the street and I thought I wasn't quick enough and was in trouble, but she just started telling me about changes to the rooming arrangements or something! But I couldn't pay attention because- _I knew there was an ice cream in my bag!"_

It takes them a good few minutes to get their laughter under control. Once they've recovered, Patsy steels herself and decides to share.

"The other day after Cubs, Delia and I got fish and chips on the way home. We couldn't eat them outside, or at the table, so we had to eat them in the chapel."

"Oh no!" Barbara laughs, "my mother caught me eating sweets in the chapel at home once, and I never heard the end of it! You're lucky you weren't caught!"

"I know, but we were in our uniforms, and Trixie and Tom were arguing in here, so we were rather between a rock and a hard place. If you hear anything about how it smelled fishy during Complene, you're to say you know nothing."

"Of course," Barbara says, her face pink from laughing. She takes a few breaths to steady herself. "You and Delia are ever so close."

Patsy freezes. All levity instantly evaporates. She carefully schools her expression as her heart thunders like a freight train. "What makes you say that?"

"Hearing about you getting into scrapes together. I used to have a friendship like that."

 _'I bet you didn't.'_ thinks Patsy, trying to calm herself.

"She was my best friend at school; Maude. Once-" Barbara looks around, making absolutely sure nobody else is about, "we stole a bottle of communion wine. All her idea."

"Barbara Gilbert!"

"I _know_ ," she giggles, "we were never found out, but I think Pop suspected, even though he never said anything."

"Stealing wine, eating in chapel, ice creams in the streets," Patsy tuts, "you can take the girl out of Liverpool-"

"Not a _word_ to the nuns."

As if summoned, Sister Monica Joan appears in the doorway.

"Can we help you, Sister Monica Joan?" Patsy asks, as Barbara sits bolt upright.

"It is here somewhere," she says, fussing around the cupboards beside them.

"What are you looking for?"

"Aha!" Sister Monica Joan triumphantly places a biscuit tin containing a mostly-whole Victoria sponge on the table.

"Should have guessed."

"Will you partake?" Sister Monica Joan asks, distributing dessert forks.

Patsy and Barbara look at each other.

"Go on then," says Barbara, "If we polish the whole thing off, we can simply deny there was any cake in the first place."

"I won't say a word; we're all in this crime together after all," Patsy says.

"And yet, there is honour amongst thieves!" Sister Monica Joan approves.

"That's the spirit."

* * *

When even the crumbs have been polished off and Sister Monica Joan has vanished upstairs, Patsy washes the plates, forks and tin to hide the evidence. "That should do it. You just have to hold through if there's an interrogation."

"You've got enough dirt on me to to make me suffer through torture for you," Barbara says as she dries, "and I know your terrible secrets. Mutually assured protection."

"Mmm," Patsy agrees, putting on a face. She knows Delia isn't terrible, and wishes she weren't a secret. Apart from anything else, it's exhausting; the gut-wrenching horror when she thinks someone might suspect, and then she's almost disappointed when they say nothing.

Perhaps Delia is right, with her insistence that one day, somewhere, they will be able to live openly. Patsy doesn't share her conviction, but can't outright deny the possibility. After all, stranger things have happened – during the war there were countless times when Patsy couldn't imagine the world ever being all right again. Everything was so wrong, so damaged, that the normalcy of something as simple as cake-stealing twenty years later seemed absurd.

But as Sister Monica Joan is so fond of saying, the planets keep on moving, and time marches on. Not even the astronomers can tell what the future will bring, and Delia's prediction seems as likely as any.

As Sister Evangelina and Nurse Crane return from their district rounds and she and Barbara practice their poker faces, Patsy certainly hopes so.


	6. Chapter 6

Their café is usually busy enough to feel inconspicuous, but not so busy as to feel crowded, which Patsy likes. It also has a jukebox machine, which Delia likes. It's conveniently close to both Nonnatus and the nurse's home, so the pair have become something of regulars.

Patsy orders drinks (usually tea when one or both of them are on shift the next morning) and Delia chooses the music (usually one of those American crooners that Trixie tapes pictures of above her bed). They have a preferred table, but tonight it is occupied, so they settle for a booth at the front.

"How was your day?" Patsy asks.

"Long," Delia laughs, "but now all the better for seeing you."

Patsy loves hearing how life is going on the other side of Poplar; Delia's tales of The London and the people she used to work with never fail to brighten her day. Likewise, Delia loves Patsy's stories about the residents of Nonnatus; Fred's latest scheme, Trixie's latest fashion statement, Sister Monica Joan's latest misadventure.

"-and then Doctor Wilkins said it was actually Nurse Bradley's fault that he wasn't brought in sooner!" Delia says, her face animated as she recounts the story. Patsy is captivated. "Can you imagine? So then I had to spend my whole afternoon-"

"Ladies like you, drinking alone?" a man interrupts, addressing the entire café. "It's almost a crime. What'll you have?"

They are quite used to this happening (although they choose cafés over bars to minimise the chances), and while Delia normally politely declines, it's clear that today she's had enough.

"We're not _alone_ , thank you very much!"

The café goes quiet. Men making drunken propositions is commonplace, but a woman shouting; that's something at which to stop and stare.

"Come on Pats; let's go."

Patsy hurriedly grabs her coat, and hopes that nobody she knows is watching.

Delia storms out of the café; Patsy want to grab her hand or arm, but there are too many people around. "Please, Delia. Please don't let that spoil our evening."

Delia stops. "I'm sorry Patsy, I didn't mean to make a scene."

"Is there somewhere you'd like to go?"

* * *

Patsy and Delia make their way leisurely alongside the Thames; the docks have been abandoned for the night, and lights from across the river shimmer in the water.

"I love this," Delia says, the earlier altercation forgotten. "Being able to do this. It reminds me of home."

For most of her life, Patsy has refrained from asking people about themselves, has tried not to take an interest. After all, what if they start asking questions in return? "Tell me about it."

"Well, the River Gwaun doesn't smell quite so badly, but it cuts through our town just like the Thames: north and south. Our house used to be near the river, and you could hear it from the garden. Mam was always pulling me out of the river - or the sea. There were so many creatures, too; herons, kingfishers, sometimes even otters."

"It sounds wonderful."

"But here there's noise and lights even after dark. Everything's so busy! It used to be just Welsh or English, but here I hear a dozen languages a day."

They walk on, past moored boats and buildings by the quayside that have put up red lights for the night. They can hear people shouting and dogs barking in the distance, but as they carefully pick their way down to the riverbank, only accessible at low tide, they are the only two people around.

"What made you come to London, Delia?"

"Hilda and John."

"Who?"

Delia shuffles closer and hooks her arm through Patsy's. Patsy stiffens, but rationalises that if anyone spots them, linked arms would be the least remarkable thing about their evening excursion. They huddle together on the bank and look out across the river.

"When I was six, our whole town was chosen to host evacuees at the start of the Blitz. On the day, Mam took me along. I remember them, about seventy little children, most no older than me, with little suitcases huddled in the village hall, and families choosing which ones they liked the look of. Hilda and John were the last ones left; tiny and skinny and dirty. John hadn't stopped crying, and Hilda said they'd been told they were going on holiday.

At first, none of us could understand a word they said; we didn't even speak English at home before they came. We'd heard English accents over the wireless, of course, but they'd all sounded like the King. They stayed with us for three years. And the stories they told us about London! All the noise and the people and the buildings! It sounded horrible and wonderful, and I knew I had to see it for myself. Mam finally took me there on the train for my thirteenth birthday. It was still in ruins from the war, but I knew this was where I had to be."

"I'm glad," says Patsy.

"I have no regrets about coming here, Patsy, none. But I do miss home sometimes; the air and the green. I'd love to show you someday."

Patsy nods, but thinks about how it will probably never happen, and quietly aches for a place to call home. She has Nonnatus, which feels more like a home with each passing day, but it's not somewhere she can return to, years from now, when she's moved on from London, from midwifery. She can't build a new home with someone (with Delia) as she's seen so many people orphaned or displaced by the War do, one final triumph over the Axis.

She's standing on a dark, cold riverbed, miles from Singapore, miles from anywhere she might call her roots.

But she's not alone.

"I mean it, Patsy." Delia says, shaking her from her thoughts. "The Welsh are very hospitable. And in the Autumn, while the days are still long, we can go for walks along the river, and up into the forests; I bet you'll have never seen so many colours!"

"That sounds wonderful."

Still arm-in-arm, the pair start making their way back to civilisation, the Thames still glittering with city lights. Delia continues telling Patsy about what they'll do when they visit Wales together, painting pictures of the place so clearly in Patsy's mind that she can no longer question it. By the time they reach Woolmore Street, her negative thoughts have faded entirely. Delia steals a quick kiss of her cheek before heading back to the nurse's home, which keeps Patsy warm the rest of the way despite the evening chill.

* * *

When she gets in, she finds Trixie and Barbara playing Scrabble in the parlour. Sister Mary Cynthia is not strictly playing, but suggesting words she can spot from where she's reading benedictions in the corner. Sister Winifred is helping Sister Monica Joan with her handicrafts ("doesn't Sooty have black ears? Should he wear a hat?"), and Sister Evangelina has fallen asleep in her chair.

"It's no good, I've got too many I's," Barbara sighs, "want to join my team, Patsy? It's only fair, Trixie's got a helper."

"I most certainly do not!" Trixie protests as she plays JOVIAN, a suggestion from Sister Monica Joan.

Patsy sits down next to Barbara and racks her brain for words to use up the I's. Sister Mary Cynthia switches sides and DIVINING gets them a double word score and a squeal of indignation from Trixie so loud that it wakes Sister Evangelina.

It might not be home forever, but it is enough.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite living with the nuns, and their faith playing such a large role in Patsy's day-to-day existence, Patsy has a bit of a complicated relationship with God.

Her belief that there is a benevolent power greater than herself is more or less crushed out of her the day her sister died. Her mother kept her faith till the end, and Patsy tried desperately to cling to it, to help keep some small part of her alive, but the anger and sorrow were all-consuming.

Years later, at her Catholic boarding school, Patsy came to realisations about herself that complicated things further. She remembers thinking – _am I being tested? Mocked?_ She said the Nicene Creed along with everyone else – _I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth_ – but the words sounded hollow. She said prayers for her dearly departed family, but as for herself, decided firmly that she had other things to worry about.

* * *

"Do you suppose we'll go to Hell?"

As she hungrily tucks in to her fish and chips, Patsy isn't expecting a theological question. She and Delia have never really discussed what might happen when they pass on, and Patsy isn't prepared for it. She fumbles.

"Eating our supper in the House of God?"

As they laugh about the sin of eating in uniform, relief washes over her. She can laugh about the little sins, as long as neither of them mention the elephant in the small, holy room. _Politics, money, religion._ Patsy's far too British for that.

* * *

Sometimes, when she is interacting with people – usually the nuns, but it could be anyone – Patsy idly wonders how they might respond if they _knew_. It's an exercise in self-flagellation, she knows, but morbid curiosity is one of the things that made her become a nurse in the first place.

Would Sister Julienne, with her serene grace, be ruffled? Patsy recalls a case where Sister Julienne had suggested leaving a cuckolded father in ignorance of his wife's infidelity for the greater good. Would she advocate a similar course of action for Patsy? Would the good she provides as a nurse outweigh her sinful nature?

Would Sister Monica Joan even mind? Patsy entertains the idea that she may be like Queen Victoria and believe it not possible. Probably not – _'there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy._ '

And what of Sister Evangelina? After all, with her adamance than men should have no part of childbirth, would she see Patsy's affliction as a perversion of the female bonds she holds so dearly?

* * *

During the court case and pregnancy of Mr and Mrs Amos respectively, Patsy notices a change in Sister Winifred.

Perhaps she's projecting – she herself feels like she's wearing a mask every waking hour – but Sister Winifred carries herself with more purpose, can be found in the chapel every hour God sends, and, sometimes, doth protest a little too much.

 _"Love?_ " Sister Winifred says, aghast. The smallest nun normally brightens up whichever room she is in with her cheeriness, taking care not to upset anyone or rock the boat.

But today she is adamant. Standing her ground against everyone at the table, until Sister Julienne diplomatically puts an end to the debate. Trixie smiles, secure in the knowledge of her own moral high ground, but despite the strength of her belief, Patsy can see no self-assurances in Sister Winifred's eyes.

Patsy wonders.

She understands that people who are _like her_ can either play their parts in public, as Mr Amos and Trixie's beau in training have done, or simply shut themselves off, as Patsy had been doing before meeting Delia.

What better way to shut yourself off than to enter a life where constant solitude is expected? Which calling puts you utterly above reproach? What can you do to save your soul, but to resist temptation, as Jesus did in the desert, and devote yourself fully to The Father?

The nuns talk very little about their lives before joining the Order, but Patsy has caught snippets from Sister Winifred; how Gloucestershire is lovely in the summer, how she used to enjoy walks in the country. Patsy has spent most of her life in cities, but she knows about small-town mentalities. Communities that are close-knit, where everyone looks out for everyone, until the moment someone is different.

As soon as dessert is finished, Sister Winifred excuses herself and heads back to the chapel – Patsy imagines the indents in the kneeler are still there from before dinner. As Sister Winifred no doubt prays and prays for Mr Amos' tortured soul, Patsy spares a thought for Sister Winifred's.

* * *

"Did you really mean it?" Patsy asks much later, in the privacy of Delia's room at the Nurse's Home.

"Mean what?" Patsy suspects Delia knows what she's talking about, but wants Patsy to say it.

"About wanting to be married. To me."

"Of course I did. You know I love you, Patience Mount." it is not the first time Delia has said the words, nor even the hundredth, but Patsy cannot take it for granted, and her heart skips a beat. "I would love, more than anything, to be able to show everyone. Friends, family, God."

Britishness be damned. "God?"

"Why not? Why shouldn't we? He made us."

"But Delia, it's- We-"

"I know what I feel," Delia says gently. "I know what's right. How I feel when I'm with you, or even apart."

Years of school; living with the nuns, and Patsy doesn't have a response to that. She feels she should have stopped being surprised at the way Delia sees the world by now. But she hasn't.

"I feel the same." she says after a few moments, and the brightness of Delia's smile is divine.


	8. Chapter 8

As far as roommates go, Patsy feels rather lucky to be sharing with Trixie. They both smoke, agree on music most of the time, and generally don't need masking-tape divisions to mark out personal space. Trixie does overstep her boundaries sometimes, but it's something Patsy is learning to live with.

"I hope you don't mind my saying," Trixie says offhand, but it's enough to make Patsy worry anyway, wondering what might come next, "but you're having fewer nightmares these days."

"Was I- Was I having many before?" Patsy asks, mortified.

"Sometimes." Trixie doesn't look up from her magazine, tipping her cigarette into her ashtray, her tone as if they were discussing the weather. "I never _minded_. I just wasn't sure if you'd noticed."

Patsy honestly hasn't. She knows she still has nightmares, usually snaps awake in a cold sweat, hoping she hasn't disturbed anyone. Trixie is always – or so Patsy thought - asleep; facing away, her breathing slow and steady.

The hit her sleeping pattern has taken since coming to Nonnatus is substantial, though. Male surgical wasn't without its trials and tribulations, but credit to them, they keep regular hours. Patsy was very rarely pulled from her bed at 3am to attend an emergency, and got rather used to being able to sleep according to a pre-planned shift schedule. She's been at Nonnatus for about a year now, but sleep is precious, and between the long, unpredictable hours and the physical exertion of cycling miles a day around Poplar, Patsy gets off to sleep these days with little effort.

It wasn't always the case.

Our Lady and St Mark took a firm stance on criers, troublemakers, bedwetters – anyone who disrupted the dormitory at night. No quarter was given to girls who disturbed the peace, which meant Patsy spent a lot of time explaining herself after she'd woken the entire hallway with her screams. She wasn't alone – plenty of other girls carried scars from the war – but the nuns thought a zero-tolerance policy was the best way of dealing with the disruptions, and it continued. Already an oddball, and nearly four years older than the rest of the girls (Prisoner of War camps are no place for an uninterrupted education) Patsy was surrounded by people and so very alone.

Finally, when she left to become a nurse, she was given a room of her own. It was all Virginia Woolf had promised, and more. The ability to scare herself awake; ears ringing, throat dry, and be able to slowly breathe, calm herself down, and sometimes even get back to sleep, without being pulled out of bed and put before the headmistress. It was somewhere to keep her precious box of mementos without worrying about Alice-Jane Smythe stealing something on a dare. Somewhere she could shut the door at the end of the day, and keep the rest of the world at bay.

* * *

"Delia?"

"Yes, Pats?"

"Do I- Have you ever noticed me have nightmares?"

"Oh, darling. I've seen you have waking nightmares. It's one of the things that makes it so hard to ever say goodbye to you; I hate the thought of not being there."

Patsy wonders briefly what she did to deserve this girl. "But when I'm asleep, do I sleep through? Have you noticed?"

"Well yes, sweetheart. But the times we have shared a bed, it's been because of something traumatic; I've expected it. You don't always wake up, but I've noticed the nightmares. Why, has someone said something?"

"Trixie mentioned that I'd been having them less. I didn't realise she knew I had them at all."

"Trixie's a good friend," Delia says, stroking Patsy's hair, "she wouldn't want you to worry about this."

"I hate to think I've been a disturbance all this time-"

"I used to have a room next door to someone with night terrors," Delia says, "'soldier's heart', my dad called it, but I rather think that's because he thought only soldiers could have it. She was so professional and no-nonsense in the day, but I could hear her shout and scream in the night through the walls."

"Delia-"

"I don't think anyone ever said anything, because nobody knew how. She wasn't the most approachable person. But I think all you can really do is just be there for someone. Like Trixie is for you."

"What happened with the girl in the room next to you?" Patsy asks, smiling through tears.

"I'd ask how her day had been, invite her out to the pictures with the other nurses, lend her books. It wasn't charity. I didn't feel sorry for her, I just wanted her to know she wasn't alone.

Some nights, the pain in her screams brought me to tears. I couldn't imagine what she could have been through to cause so much suffering." Delia keeps stroking Patsy's hair, "when she told me, much later on, I cried again. It was still unimaginable."

"But you helped," Patsy says, her voice cracking "you did let her know she wasn't alone."

"I'm glad."

"Do you remember when you borrowed her copy of _A Room Of One's Own_?" Patsy says, gently wiping tears from Delia's eyes as they hold one another and smile and cry.

"I do. I was a menace; I defaced it."

"You carefully underlined a few words. In pencil - completely forgivable."

"' _Chloe liked Olivia'_ ," Delia quotes from memory, "I remember. Chloe still does, you know."

Patsy laughs and sobs. "I know."

Delia holds her close. "It's all right, Patsy. You're so safe, and so loved."

"I know."

* * *

"Thank you for telling me," Patsy says quietly, after Trixie has turned off the light. It's easier somehow, to say things in the dark. "About the nightmares, I mean."

"You were never a bother," Trixie whispers back, "and I didn't intend to make you self-conscious. I suppose I thought it would be good for you to know."

"I think it is. I think being here has helped rather enormously."

"Do you mean it?"

"I'm sorry I told you about it the way I did, but I think it was good to tell you about – you know – _before_."

"If there's anything I can do..."

"You're here," Patsy says, and reaches across the dark gulf between their beds. Trixie takes her hand for a moment and squeezes it, "and it helps."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my tumblr buds waytooinvested and therealdocmountfitchett for looking this chapter over for me :)

Delia is at Nonnatus House when she collapses. She had been visiting at the end of her workday, having a drink with Trixie, Patsy and Barbara. Patsy had mentioned that she looked a little pale, Delia made a joke about paediatrics, and nobody had thought more of it.

Suddenly everything happens at once; Trixie rushes to telephone Doctor Turner and fetch Sister Julienne, and Barbara grabs the dustpan and brush to sweep up the broken pieces of Delia's tumbler, shards lying worryingly close to Delia's limp body. Bourbon slowly soaks into the carpet.

Patsy is paralysed, watching events unfold as if through a foggy mirror. Sister Julienne bursts into the room with Trixie and Sister Evangelina on her heels, and they move Delia onto Patsy's bed.

"She's breathing; steady pulse." Sister Evangelina reports, her fingers pressed to Delia's wrist. Delia has such small wrists.

"It appears she has a fever," Sister Julienne presses a cold flannel – _where did she get that from?_ \- to Delia's forehead, "Nurse Gilbert, please fetch a thermometer."

The room is buzzing with energy; people are rushing in and out, and Patsy takes a step back, watching from the corner. She's been trained for this; this is what being a nurse _means_.

But it's _Delia_.

Finally Delia stirs; a twitch in her hand, a flutter of her eyelids. Relief floods the room.

"Delia? Are you all right?" Trixie leans in close.

"What happened?" Delia is groggy, just like when her alarm clock goes off in the morning. This is normal; everything is fine.

"How is she?" Doctor Turner finally arrives, striding across the room. The nurses part like the sea to let him pass.

"She just fainted!"

Doctor Turner performs his tests; eyes, ears, heart rate carefully measured.

"See how the glands in her neck are swollen?" Patsy respects Doctor Turner but doesn't like him talking about Delia like she's not there. "I think she has _infectious mononucleosis_ : glandular fever."

"What a relief," Sister Julienne continues to mop Delia's brow.

"I'm going to prescribe corticosteroids and recommend bed rest for at least two weeks. And be sure to keep your fluids up; you probably fainted because you're dehydrated."

"Am I contagious?" Delia asks.

"It can be transferred through coughs and sneezes, though the infection rate is low," Doctor Turner explains, "and it can be passed through saliva. In America, it's sometimes known as 'the kissing disease'."

Delia catches her eye for a split-second, and Patsy stops her face from blushing with sheer force of will.

"Do you have anybody we should telephone?" Sister Julienne asks.

"I don't want to bother my parents with this," Delia says, her voice scratchy, "they don't have a telephone anyway. I'll be better before a letter reaches them, and it'll just worry my Mam."

* * *

Nurse Crane insists on driving Delia back to the Nurse's Home, and Patsy sort of comes along, unprompted. She hasn't touched or spoken to Delia since she fainted, but she doesn't want to let her out of her sight. From the back of the Morris Minor, Patsy catches glimpses of Delia's pale face in the wing mirror.

"Now, are you all right getting upstairs?" Nurse Crane asks as they pull up outside.

"I'll help her up," Patsy says. "Actually, you should drive home without me. I'll help her tonight."

"But you don't even have your bicycle, Nurse Mount."

"I can walk back to Nonnatus tomorrow morning," Patsy insists, "I'm on district rounds tomorrow, and I'm not on until 9."

Nurse Crane nods. "Very well. Get better soon, kid."

* * *

They're outside, in full view of the Nurse's Home, the road, and The Dog and Duck across the street, but Patsy can't help but grab Delia and pull her close. Delia is a little taken aback, already unsteady on her feet, and almost falls into Patsy. Patsy relishes it all; the body weight, the raspy breathing, the quickened heartbeat that might mean that Delia is unwell, but mean that she's _alive_.

"Patsy-"

"I'm so glad you're all right," Patsy says, her voice breaking.

"I'm fine. I will be."

"Let's get you into bed."

"Why, Nurse Mount..." Delia manages a cheeky grin.

"No kissing, remember?"

* * *

It was a joke, but as she fusses around the bed, making sure Delia is comfortable - refilling her water, fetching anything she might need - Patsy realises that it's actually very hard to reign in her affection.

She's never considered herself a particularly demonstrative person – there were actual months between she and Delia admitting their feelings for one another and Patsy initiating a kiss – but in the aftermath of her panic, she wants to be as close and as affectionate with Delia as she can be.

She helps Delia change into her pyjamas. She averts her eyes – rationally, it's nothing she hasn't seen before, but she's also never seen _Delia_ undress before. Delia is exhausted and sick, and Patsy fights to keep her focus.

"I can sleep in the chair tonight-" she starts, but Delia is looking at her like she's gone mad. She slips her shoes off and lies on the bed next to Delia, one arm around her on top of the covers.

"It's probably best if we don't face each other," Delia smiles tiredly, "I don't want you getting ill and all this not-kissing to be wasted."

It takes Patsy a while to get off to sleep.

* * *

As usual, Patsy wakes before Delia. The clock on the bedside table reports that it is 5.25, so she has plenty of time before she is due back at Nonnatus. She can hear the noise of the docks outside already, and light is filtering in through the curtains. Delia's breathing is still a little raspy, and Patsy gently leans over to see if her neck glands are still visibly swollen.

They are, but Patsy's attention is more immediately drawn to the fact that the top three buttons of Delia's nightdress are undone. Clearly she did a rather poor job of helping Delia change last night, and the amount of bare skin she can see from her vantage point is… substantial.

She places her hand on Delia's forehead to see if her temperature has gone down at all, and Delia leans into the cool touch, revealing more.

Yesterday evening, she was paralysed with fear; completely unable to move at the prospect of watching yet another person she loved die right in front of her. And now she can barely control herself.

"Pull yourself together, Patience."

Delia stirs at her voice, and then starts coughing; big coughs that shake her whole body and make her gasp in pain.

"Are you all right?" Patsy passes her a glass of water from the bedside.

"Fine," Delia wheezes, looking ill and dishevelled and adorable.

* * *

"You're awfully good, you know," Barbara says as they retrieve their instruments from the autoclave. "I remember you taking care of me on my first night here."

"I recall she was mostly responsible for your condition." Trixie says with a mischievous grin.

"Firstly, I think the blame lies firmly at _your_ feet, Nurse Franklin, and secondly, I just don't like the idea of Delia being ill by herself. I'm aware she has friends at the Nurse's Home, but..."

"You became a nurse because you care."

"Exactly."

* * *

Patsy's district rounds pass in a bit of a blur – several patients' houses take her near the Nurse's Home, and she has to resist popping in to see Delia. She left in the early hours, but knows that Doctor Turner will have come by to check Delia and make sure Matron knows about her condition.

Patsy remembers refusing to leave her sister's side. Assisting at the hut had become routine; children weren't worked as hard as the adults, and it was a way she could feel useful. She helped monitor the condition of several patients – some got better, most didn't – but when it was her sister and then her mother's turn to lie on the filthy, festering cot, Patsy felt helpless.

So, as she parks her bicycle at the front of the Nurse's Home and heads inside to tend to her patient, she finds it refreshing to know exactly why fetching jug after jug of water to keep Delia's fluids up is useful; being able to identify the active ingredients in Doctor Turner's prescribed medicine and know the intended effects; knowing that while Delia's temperature is a little elevated, it is well within safe limits. Aside from anything else, this precious knowledge is worth becoming a nurse for.

"How's my soldier?" Patsy asks, letting herself into Delia's room.

Delia cracks her eyes open and smiles weakly.

Patsy is by her side in a moment; mopping her brow, helping her sit up, telling Delia all about her day. Seeing Delia like this is difficult, she still feels like she's not doing _enough_ , but she knows it will pass.

She is in the middle of telling Delia about how Mrs Merryweather is convinced that her children contracted chicken pox from the actual chickens down by the docks, when there's a knock at the door.

Patsy opens the door to Trixie and Barbara, both clearly just off-shift, holding a bunch of chrysanthemums and a bag of oranges.

"Hello Delia! Are you up to visitors?"

"What do you think?" Patsy asks quietly, and Delia nods.

"Full disclosure – these were actually from Mr Johnson, who I believe hands out fruit to every girl on a bike who passes by, but we thought you'd appreciate the vitamin C," Trixie says, putting the oranges on Delia's nightstand.

Barbara holds the flowers up and smiles brightly, "these are from us though."

As Trixie and Barbara fuss around Delia, Patsy blinks back tears. Delia catches her eye and smiles. She's not in a disease-ridden hut. She knows what's wrong and knows that everything will be all right.

Delia gasps with laughter as Trixie shrieks, peeling an orange and squirting juice in her eye.

Everything _is_ all right.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** this chapter contains mentions of mental illness and suicide.

_Neurasthenia. ___A catch-all term for 'female maladies', about one rung above hysteria on the ladder of male-dominated psychology refusing to accept any nuance in the diagnosis of female mental illness.

Women who suffer from abnormal moods following pregnancy are, Patsy has learned, much more common than people like to think, preferring to talk about the joy of childbirth as an absolute certainty. This has the unfortunate side-effect of leaving many new mothers with guilt and confusion piled on top of any other emotional irregularities, and often with nobody to talk to. Mrs Fenwick, the newest mother on Patsy's round, is exhibiting all the textbook signs (low mood, lethargy, lack of emotional bond with her new child), and Patsy is becoming rather worried.

* * *

"Do you believe the child to be in danger?" Sister Julienne asks. She sits across the desk, the calmness of her voice betrayed by trembling hands. Patsy had only mentioned her concerns conversationally as she and the other midwives sorted out their instruments for the autoclave, but Sister Julienne overheard and curtly requested Patsy attend to her office immediately.

"No, Sister Julienne," Patsy says, feeling like a naughty child explaining herself to a teacher, "Mrs Fenwick's sister is looking after baby for the time being, and she's got two of her own. I'm more concerned for Mrs Fenwick."

"What seems to be the problem?"

Patsy explains how the small flat that impressed her with its tidiness when she first dropped round to give the young mother-to-be her delivery pack has descended into disarray. How dishes are piled high next to the sink, clothes are strewn about the floor, and the bed – on the rare occasion that Mrs Fenwick isn't passing the day away in it, crying or staring at the walls – lies unmade.

"I see." Sister Julienne says after a moment's reflection. "Thank you for bringing these concerns to my attention."

"What would you like me to do?"

"Please continue to visit Mrs Fenwick on your usual rounds and ensure she is all right, and let me know of any changes. I will include her on my own district rounds to make sure she is seen as often as possible. I shall be in touch with Mrs Fenwick's sister and husband and see if I can gain a better understanding of her… emotional changes. If things continue, I think we may have to involve Dr Turner and possibly have her referred to St Bernard's."

"I see." says Patsy, moving her hands to her lap as they begin to shake.

* * *

It is bad form to discuss patients outside of work, but Delia is a nurse, there is nobody around in the park to overhear them, and Patsy is desperate for the reassurances and support that only Delia can give. They sit together on a bench, close but not too close, and Patsy recounts her meeting with Sister Julienne.

"Oh Pats, I'm so sorry," Delia says, her face frowning in sympathy. Patsy knows she wants to reach out and touch her, and feels the familiar pang of guilt that accompanies denying Delia.

"It's all right," Patsy says, taking out a cigarette so she has something to do with her hands; it takes her three attempts to light it. She takes a drag and exhales, and the smoke is instantly whisked away in the breeze. "I've read about it, and heard about it so frequently I thought I was prepared. But it's rather difficult, watching it happening to one of _my_ mothers."

Delia smiles a little at that; she loves that Patsy has taken to midwifery so well, even though moving from male surgical has taken her away from Delia. Of all the things she loves about Delia, she is continually amazed at how much she gives Patsy space. Over the years, Patsy has pulled away, physically and emotionally, more times than either of them can count; Delia's capacity for patience and understanding is equal to that of the nuns at Nonnatus, and Patsy is forever grateful.

"How is she?"

It is almost easy to discuss Mrs Fenwick; Patsy talks about her patient's lack of appetite, the rejection of her new child, her fear of the room where she gave birth to her baby, and her refusal to leave it. Patsy's voice cracks once or twice, and she raises her head, staring up at the leafy horse chestnut tree above them to blink back tears. Delia listens patiently; engaged with everything Patsy is saying, but never interrupting.

"And how are you?" Delia's eyes lock with Patsy's, and she refuses to let her avoid answering. Delia is asking the question even Sister Julienne has missed, and Patsy has trouble finding the words. She looks up at the tree for several long moments.

"It's reminding me of my time on the mental health ward." Patsy says eventually. Her cigarette has burned down to the filter, and she resists the urge to immediately light another because she knows Delia would disapprove. In her pocket, she clutches her lighter tightly.

Mental health nursing was, in retrospect, a truly terrible idea. Patsy saw the darkness in the human soul at such a young age, and it sparked within her a curiosity about the mind (about _her_ mind); people's cruelty, sadness, trauma, resilience.

All her working life, she's been (more or less) able to put on her brave face and crack on, even in the face of stillborn babies, whole-body sepsis, and tropical disease cases that send her straight back to the camp in Singapore. But her first experience with electro-shock therapy came the closest to breaking her. The patient hadn't – couldn't – consent, and the spasms and shudders horrified Patsy to her core. It was like watching her mother fitting on the cot, but the knowledge that they – not some disease borne of humidity and filth - were the ones intentionally causing it was traumatic. Her hands were sweaty and shaking as she removed the electrodes from her patients' head.

_It's for their own good, it's for their own good_ was Patsy's mantra as she carried out her time on the Ellis Ward at St Bernard's, waiting for her secondment to come to an end. Each day she would walk up to the imposing gate under the gaze of the panopticon tower. She couldn't imagine what it must feel like for the patients brought into the former asylum, locked up and treated like prisoners.

(Patsy knows a lot about prison)

But it was true; the shock therapy remains the only effective treatment for the poor people who would otherwise turn to the bottle, to the gas in their oven, to a length of rope and a chair. But the knowledge was little comfort when she had to watch people's eyes roll back in their heads each day, leather in their mouths to ensure they wouldn't bite their tongues out.

Patsy is acutely aware that electro-convulsive therapy was historically used as a cure for people _like her_. She knows that her job, her life that she has worked so hard to build, could come crashing down if certain things in her private life were made public, but she is perversely grateful that at least it wouldn't condemn her to the sanatorium. At least Mr Amos' drugs were preferable to the aversion therapy she's read about in the _British Journal of Nursing_ , nestled between articles about air pollution and palliative care.

Delia knows all of this, has been told bit by bit in quiet shared moments, and Patsy knows she remembers each crumb, holding the stray pieces in her heart, discovering where they fit against one another, slowly piecing together Patsy's past like a jigsaw puzzle. It's been difficult for both of them, but Patsy finally has someone who can ask the right questions.

"Shall we go and get some tea?" Delia asks, "my treat."

"I'd like that," Patsy says, and they make their way back through the park, hands gently brushing as they walk. Delia hooks her little finger around Patsy's, and rather than panic, the touch fills her with calm. Her hands finally stop shaking.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorryyy this isn't even Patsy-centric; this started life as a tag-essay but some lovely people prodded me into turning it into an actual fic and I thought I'd post it somewhere ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The Nonnatus parlour is quiet. With Sister Mary Cynthia (possibly just Cynthia now; Delia isn't sure) recuperating, and the nuns more often than not retreated into prayer together, the whole of Nonnatus seems quiet of late. Added to the fact that Trixie and Barbara are out with their respective gentleman friends, and Patsy still gone, date of return unknown, Delia often finds herself feeling quite lonely. In the vague hope that Nurse Crane or Valerie might pop by and provide some company, Delia curls up on the sofa and flicks idly through the London Evening Standard. Her heart sinks when she sees an excited circle drawn around the cinema listings: 7:30pm, Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. Delia eyes the clock on the mantle - it would be the interval now, the red curtains dropping as people mill about for snacks of chocolate or ice cream.

A knock on wood disturbs her reverie and Delia looks up to see Sister Winifred with an armful of painting supplies in the doorway. 

"I don't want to bother you-"

"Not at all," Delia says, sitting up straight, brushing at a self-indulgent tear, "I thought you were still praying."

"The others are," Sister Winifred says with a touch of sheepishness, "but I've always been better at showing my devotion through action. And these posters for the May Fair won't paint themselves."

"Can I help?" Delia asks, suddenly glad for the distraction, "I'm no Picasso but I can just about manage colouring within the lines."

"That would be a wonderful help, if you don't mind," Sister Winifred says cheerfully, "are you done with this newspaper? I need to put something down, the last time I got paint on the table I could feel Nurse Crane's disapproval for weeks."

"Well, far be it from me to put you in Nurse Crane's bad books," Delia says, handing it over. 

The circled date catches Sister Winifred's eye and she reads it thoughtfully. "Have you seen this? The Birds?"

"No," Delia says. "I'd like to, it's just - Trixie and Barbara have their men and I don't much fancy being the fifth wheel. Me and Patsy would-" she catches herself, flounders about for a topic to change the conversation to, but before she can make a joke about Fred's new scheme, Sister Winifred asks,

"Shall we go?"

It's the last question Delia expects, and it's only the coy smile on Sister Winifred's face that stops her thinking the's imagined it. 

"Only - I've really been wanting to see it too. And I get all kinds of strange looks when I go by myself."

"I'd love that," Delia says. Sister Winifred giggles and the posters are momentarily forgotten as they study the listings in the paper, "do you think you'll be free for Wednesday's matinee?"

"Yes, I think I will be."

"Perfect," Delia says, then gets to work painting multicoloured ribbons, taking care not to smudge them into one another. It's not until she's finished the entire maypole that a thought occurs to her. 

"Aren't you - you know -" Delia drops her voice to a whisper, "not meant to-?"

Sister Winifred looks guiltily around the room. "I won't tell if you don't."

* * *

On Tuesday some girls from The London invite Delia along to the pictures, but she declines - Delia honours her commitments and, honestly, she's looking forward to her outing with Sister Winifred.

They arrange to meet at the Beaumont, an impressive art deco cinema that survived the blitz unscathed, a short bus ride away from Poplar. It's far enough to make it unlikely that they'll bump into anyone who recognises Sister Winifred, and Delia doesn't mention that it's the cinema she and Patsy usually go to for the exact same reason. 

Sister Winifred is a wonderful cinema companion; the matinée showing is quite full and the pair laugh and squeal through the entire film, drawing disapproving stares. Delia laughs at Sister Winifred watching through particularly intense scenes through her fingers. 

They're pink with laughter when they head back outside, and fresh giggles overtake them as they wait for a bus and a crow lands nearby to pick through rubbish. 

"Shoo!" Sister Winifred says. The crow looks at her and caws, and she squeaks and hides behind Delia.

* * *

They see To Kill a Mockingbird and Delia lends Sister Winifred the book after.

Disney's Sword in the Stone is more Delia's choice than Sister Winifred's, but Delia catches her humming the music from it for weeks afterwards.

Then, finally, Patsy returns. Delia is sure that anybody in Nonnatus with eyes would surely know their secret from the measure of her joy, but aside from an approving nod from Nurse Crane, nobody seems to suspect anything. Trixie makes a few comments about Delia getting her best friend back, and things eventually return to normal.

Still, Sister Winifred seems surprised when, one evening about a month after Patsy's return, Delia passes her a newspaper with a showtime circled in red. 

"But Patsy's back now."

"I know," says Delia, "but this isn't Patsy's cup of tea at all. And besides, she's on lates every evening this week."

Sister Winifred's smile is wide and a little watery, and Delia realises that the loss of Sister Mary Cynthia, the only nun remotely her age, must be a source of grief somewhat comparable to Patsy's extended absence. 

"And I'll buy the tickets this time." Delia says with finality.

* * *

It's been a particularly trying day; Patsy helped Mrs Winton through the better part of a 12-hour labour, and Delia lost a young patient with complications from appendicitis. 

The room she and Patsy now share has two single beds, of course. They usually gently push them together, always remembering to push them back apart come morning, but sometimes the day is so long and they're both so exhausted that cuddling up together on a single is all they have energy for. 

They're too tired to talk, or to hear the gentle knock, and it's how Sister Winifred finds them when she opens the door, intent on returning a book. 

Patsy leaps away from Delia as if burned, but it's too late, and Sister Winifred's eyes are wide and disbelieving. Delia flounders around for an excuse, for anything, but the moment passes and Sister Winifred flees. 

Patsy is numb with shock and fear, and Delia's reassurances do little to help, so Delia decides on practical action. Sister Winifred's room, the kitchen, the parlour are all deserted, and it's not until she collects herself enough to rationally think about where Sister Winifred might have gone that she finds her in the chapel. 

Complene finished hours ago, so the chapel is deserted but for the two of them, and smoke from extinguished candles lingers in the air. Sister Winifred is sitting in a middle pew, her wimple obscuring her face from Delia's view. 

"Sister Winifred?" she asks, and her voice echoes in the empty room.

"I can't pretend I... understand."

Delia can hear her heartbeat in the silence of the chapel, blood pounding in her ears.

"But you've been so much happier since Patsy came back. When she left, she took some part of you with her, and now you're yourself again. I've been thinking about Sister Mary Cynthia; it's a horrible thing when you're not yourself."

Delia barely registers what Sister Winifred says, her mind too busy casting about for words that might persuade her to at least leave Patsy out of any reports or complaints, "please, Sister Winifred, you can't-"

"I won't say anything to Sister Julienne. Or anyone. Except, you know -" she gestures heavenward with a half-smile - "Him. He already knows, of course."

Delia nearly laughs aloud at how Sister Winifred the action is, and the sudden, shuddering relief that things might actually be all right.

"Thank you."

"I won't tell if you don't," Sister Winifred says. Delia can't help but pull her into a hug, which she returns, "come on, let's go and make some tea. You should invite Patsy down, and we'll see if there's any carrot cake left."


End file.
